


Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

by osprey_archer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: Bucky runs into another super-powered fugitive from justice with a yen for black leather jackets: Skye a.k.a. Daisy Johnson a.k.a. Quake.He figures he's got to have something in common with someone who's got that many names.





	Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucymonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/gifts).



> Thank you to lauralot for giving this a look!

The press calls her Quake. But Bucky has been keeping tabs on SHIELD as best he can as long as he’s been on the run, and he knows her by some other names. She used to be Skye. And then she disappeared a few months, and came back capable of leveling buildings with a thought. And she had a new name, to boot: Daisy Johnson. 

Bucky wonders where they sent her. If she knows she used to have another name. He’d give a hell of a lot to ask. 

Now Skedaisy’s run away from SHIELD, so maybe she figured out they screwed her over. Or maybe not; it’s not SHIELD bases she’s blowing up, after all. She’s going after the Watchdogs, an anti-Inhuman group. 

Either way, SHIELD’s trying like hell to get her back. 

Bucky doesn’t mean to get involved. He doesn’t do that now. He just watches, keeps tabs on people, sometimes passes info on to Steve. 

But he’s watching from a ridge one day when she’s blowing up a barn in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a Watchdog coming up behind her. He’s got an axe and she’s got no idea, can’t hear him over the crackle of the fire, and Bucky’s got his gun out of his holster and shoots the guy before he even thinks. _Seventy-three_. 

It’s been ages since he shot anyone. The kick of the gun, the smell of the powder: it takes him back. 

He only loses a split second, but that’s long enough for her to turn around, see the Watchdog on the ground, look for the shooter. And Bucky lets her see him. He stands up and salutes, wishing he had a cape that could billow and snap in the hot wind coming off the burning barn. 

She lurches a step toward him. “Did Coulson send you?” she shouts. 

“No,” he shouts back. 

“Who do you work for?”

“No one!” 

They stare at each other. The barn crackles. Skedaisy’s arms drop to her sides, her palms parallel to the ground – and then she blasts into the sky. 

For a few seconds he can see her flying, a black streak against the brightness of the fire. Then she’s gone into the night. 

It’s just about the coolest shit Bucky’s ever seen. 

The barn rafters creak. Bucky hoofs it back to his motorcycle, and drives way too fast on the rutted dirt road. He nearly spins out at a bend a few miles away. He wrestles the bike to a stop, his heart pumping in his chest, exhilarated. 

It’s been a while since he felt this good.

***

So after that, maybe he keeps a closer eye on Skedaisy. He saved her life once, so he kind of owes it to her to keep protecting her. 

And she needs it – even more than Steve, who Bucky used to think was just about the stupidest son of a bitch he’d ever met. At least Steve isn’t actually _trying_ to die. 

She is, or at least that’s the impression Bucky gets when he saves her again, at oh-hell-no o’clock on the outskirts of DC. Another day, another warehouse, already burning when Bucky arrives. He’s too late, he missed the fun; he’s bitterly disappointed – 

Skedaisy staggers out. She’s tottering like a drunk toddler, and she only makes it a few yards away from the warehouse before she stumbles over nothing. She screams when her arms hit the gravel, and stays down. 

She’s still in the blast radius. And that warehouse will definitely blow: someone supplies the Watchdogs with good fucking shit. 

Bucky’s revving his engine before he even starts to think. When he drives across the gravel, she lifts a hand like she intends to blast him. But maybe she can’t. Certainly she doesn’t. 

“Remember me?” Bucky shouts. 

And then she does. She spits out a gob of blood. “Who are you?” she demands. The roar of the fire nearly drowns her out. 

This would be so much fucking easier if he could tell her. “The guy who’ll get you away before this place explodes,” he shouts. 

She staggers to her feet. “I can walk,” she croaks, swaying. 

The warehouse creaks. Bucky revs the bike. It’s gonna blow, they’ve gotta go, he can’t make her come and he can’t leave her here – 

The warehouse roof collapses inward. A tower of fire shoots upward, grasping toward the sky, and the sudden billow of smoke outlines a shape hovering above: a Quinjet. Camouflaged till now.

“Fuck,” Skedaisy grunts, and just like that she swings herself on the back of the bike. Bucky revs the engine, and they’re gone. 

They’re about two blocks away when the warehouse explodes. Bucky hopes that’ll slow SHIELD down. 

***

They’re free and clear of SHIELD by the time the sun rises. Bucky pulls up in a promising alleyway and turns around to look at Skye. 

In between the dirt on her face and the dried blood crusted under her mouth, she looks like a zombie who just climbed out of the grave. 

Bucky’s seen worse. Dum Dum fell into a latrine that one time, and they called him “the Big Shit” for weeks after. The thing that really worries him is that her eyes don’t seem to focus. Shit. 

“I’d better go,” she says, but she doesn’t make a move to get off the bike. 

“Kid, you’re gonna get picked up in five minutes looking like that,” Bucky says. 

“I’ll be fine,” she says, which is some Steve-level bullshit and he doubts even she believes it. Probably she’s just saying it out of habit. 

“You got a posse?” Bucky asks. “Someone who could look after you?”

Her face closes up. He’s asking too many questions. But she’s focusing now – Christ, her eyes are huge – and she asks, “Am I as dirty as you are?” 

Bucky wipes the back of his hand over his cheek. It comes away smudged with soot. “Probably worse,” he says. 

There’s a long pause. It’s getting brighter every minute. 

“We’d better find a place to get cleaned up,” Skedaisy says. 

And Bucky really didn’t think this through, because he doesn’t have a damn place to take her. He used to have a bunch of bolt holes all around DC, but he hasn’t checked on them in a year. When he comes to the city, he always stays with Steve. 

Well, why not? It’s not like he can make Steve _more_ mad at him at this point. “I’ve got a friend. We can go to his place.”

She’s instantly suspicious. “Who?”

“You’ll like this guy,” Bucky says. A sneer slips into his voice. “He’s Captain fucking America.” 

She doesn’t believe him, of course. But she’s too damn tired to argue, so they roar off into the dawn.

***

After he left Hydra, Bucky spent the first year on the run, with Steve always just two steps behind him like a ball and chain – or an arrow pointing out his whereabouts to anyone who might want to know: _Lost supersoldier here!_ Eventually Bucky realized that the only way to get Steve off his back was to stop by and say hi.

This realization coincided conveniently with the time Bucky broke his leg. He spent a week recuperating on Steve’s couch. 

And ever since, he’s dropped by from time to time, just often enough to keep Steve from getting antsy and starting to follow him again.

Although maybe he wouldn’t. He’s still sore at Bucky for leaving again. Thought Bucky was back for keeps when he came around with that broken leg. 

Steve’s not there when they arrive. Skedaisy falls down in the first available chair – honestly, Bucky’s impressed she made it up the stairs – and Bucky sets out to scrounge some supplies. T-shirts and sweatpants from Steve’s closet. A quick shower, and he leaves the water running so Skedaisy won’t have to mess with the taps with her busted hands. There’s a first aid kit behind the mirror. He hopes she won’t need anything more than that. He can hardly take Quake to a hospital. 

When he comes out, hair dripping and first aid supplies in hand, she’s moved from her chair, and she’s staring at – 

He moves to stand beside her. Steve’s shield. Of course Steve just leaves the damn thing lying around propped against the couch. 

“You weren’t joking,” she says, and looks up at him. “Captain America is your friend?”

Bucky nods. Braces himself for recognition. 

She’s peering up in his face. “Who the hell _are_ you?” 

He deflates like a popped balloon. He shouldn’t be surprised. Most Americans these days seem to think Bucky Barnes looks exactly like Paul Newman from that movie. 

“Who the hell are you?” Bucky counters. “Should I call you Quake?” 

She grimaces. “I hate that name.”

It’s not time yet to let on he knows some others. “Got one you like?”

“No.” 

Fun times. “What do your friends calls you?” Bucky asks. 

“I don’t have any friends.”

Lies. Well, that’s to be expected. “Allies, then,” Bucky counters. “What do they put on your cup at Starbucks?”

A twist to her lips that’s maybe a smile. “Batgirl.” 

A little silence follows. The shower’s still going. Bucky tilts his head toward it. “I left some clothes for you in the bathroom,” he says. “You’d better get cleaned up before we do anything about your arms.”

She nods. She plods toward the bathroom, and Bucky plops down in one of Steve’s comfy chairs, letting his head fall back. He oughta see about something to eat. But first he’ll rest just a minute. 

It’s probably been more than a minute that he’s been dozing when her voice wakes him up. “Hey,” Skedaisy says, and he turns around and she’s standing there, holding out her arms in their gauntlets. She’s biting her lips. They’re so chapped they’re bleeding. “I can’t…”

She can’t undo the gauntlets with a busted arm. Fuck, he’s such an idiot. 

He nearly knocks the chair over, he’s going to her so fast. “I’ll get it,” he says, and he takes her right hand as gently as he can in his left – which is not very gently, because that’s the metal hand, but he’s gonna need his right hand to get the gauntlets off. 

She pulls back very slightly at the touch of the metal hand. “Are you wearing armor?” 

“Sure,” Bucky scoffs. “They call me St. George. Got any dragons that need slaying?” 

But really he’s pleased that she’s noticed. It gives him an opportunity to take off the black motorcycle glove covering his shiny metal left hand. It’s always good to get a few secrets out of the way as soon as possible. Establishes trust. _I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours._

Her hand moves like she’d like to touch the metal, but the pain stops her, and instead she just leans close to look. He holds out the hand, turning it around, clenching his fist so she can appreciate the engineering in those joints. They’re not as flexible as they used to be, but still damn good considering he’s been doing the maintenance pretty much on his own for two years. 

Skedaisy’s eyes flick from his hand up to his face, searching. “One of my friends has one of those,” she says. “Are you – were you a DeathLok?”

His arm’s way better than the shit they put on the DeathLoks, but whatever, it’s all Hydra-issue supersoldier crap in the end. “Worked for Hydra,” he said. “Till I cracked the brainwashing.” 

“Fuck brainwashing,” Skedaisy’s says, and she sounds so fucking tired. 

Bucky takes her hand again, very gently, and keeps on talking to distract her as he takes off the gauntlets, because that’s probably gonna hurt. “Had some experience with it yourself?” he asks.

“Not with Hydra.” Her eyes fill with tears. She tries to rub them off on her shoulder, but mostly just smears soot across her cheeks. “Not brainwashing exactly. Mind control. A different kind.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” 

She doesn’t elaborate. He eases the gauntlet off her right hand. She’s wearing long sleeves, so he can’t see the full extent of the damage, but her hands are covered with bruises. 

She doesn’t leave when he sets the second gauntlet aside. She stands there a moment, arms hanging at her sides, head low, looking curiously defenseless for all she could blow him through a wall with a thought. _Skedaisy_ , he nearly says, and swallows it down at the last moment. “Kid?” 

She gives herself a shake. “My boots,” she says. 

So he takes those off for her too. She slumps down an armchair and he kneels by her side, undoing the buckles carefully so he won’t jostle her feet if they’re busted, too. “Socks too?” Bucky says, tilting his head up to look at her, and she nods, exhausted, her hair falling in her face, and he looks away and applies himself to peeling off her socks. 

He cups one of her heels in his hand, inspecting her foot. No bruising. It looks very small in his hand, delicate, the ridges of the bone visible through the thin skin on top. He touches one of them gently with his thumb, and then realizes what he is doing and draws back, apologetic, getting awkwardly to his feet. 

“Do you…” Bucky begins, and makes a helpless hand gesture. _Need help with anything else?_ That black leather jacket. Those tight black pants. He noticed before that she’s fucking gorgeous but it was abstract, aesthetic, not something that related to him. He feels hot and prickly all over. The apartment is too tight. 

“I can handle it,” she says. She limps on the way to the bathroom, which undercuts her words; but she must manage it somehow, because when she comes out fifteen minutes later she’s clean, dressed in Steve’s sweatpants, her hair dripping on one of Steve’s tiny gray t-shirts, which fits her with mesmerizing perfection. Her breasts aren’t big, but they are… beyond adjectives. Christ. 

Then he sees the mottled mazes of bruising on her forearms. _Christ._ “How the fuck did that happen?” 

Skedaisy eyes her damaged arms with distant interest. “When I direct my powers through my hands, the vibration damages the bones.”

Well, shit. And she’s been tearing around the country vibrating Watchdog kennels apart. “How come your arms aren’t sawdust by now?” Bucky asks. “You got a talent for superhealing too?” 

“I had a salve to help bones heal faster,” she says. She twists her arm, looking at the bruising from all angles. _Admiring_. “I haven’t been able to get it lately.” 

Probably stole it from SHIELD when she left. He’s about to ask, but then he remembers that she doesn’t know he knows she used to be SHIELD, and maybe he’d better not spring that on her just yet. At least wait till he’s got her arms patched up. 

He’s not sure what to do with them. When Bucky was a kid, any first aid pack would’ve had arnica for the bruises, but there’s nothing useful in this one except some bandages. He wraps up her arms as best he can. When he looks up at the end, there’s sweat on her forehead, but she hasn’t made a peep. 

“You’ll need to lay low for a month at least,” Bucky says. He’s still holding her hand. She scowls. “Or you can bust your bones into a million tiny pieces. That’d get in the way of your vendetta.”

“It’s not a vendetta.” Skedaisy’s indignant. “Someone’s got to stop the Watchdogs.” She draws in a breath. “Are the Avengers going to do something? Is that why you brought me here?”

The hope in her eyes hurts. “I don’t think so,” Bucky says. “I don’t have much to do with them.” 

Her shoulders sag. She withdraws her hand from his. “SHIELD won’t do anything either,” she says. Her voice is bitter. “I guess we’ve got to look after our own.” 

She brought up SHIELD herself. Hallelujah. “Is that why SHIELD’s after you? They think you’re stomping on their turf?”

She shakes her head. She’s silent for a little while, but exhaustion wins out over caution, and she says, “I used to work for them. Coulson wants me to come back.” 

That sure as shit doesn’t sound like the SHIELD he knows. “He wants to lock you up, more like. You read the Black Widow’s datadump? SHIELD put powered people in a giant prison in the desert till they ran out of space and started sticking them in asylum subbasements.” 

“That was before,” Skedaisy insists. “When Hydra was still part of SHIELD.” 

Christ, they’ve got her brainwashed as fuck. It pisses Bucky off. “Guess SHIELD doesn’t have the resources to do it now.” 

Skedaisy sucks in her breath like she’s going to shout back, but then the breath all rushes out of her like she’s been punched. She slumps forward, staring at her bandaged forearms. “Coulson was going to put Inhumans in stasis boxes,” she says.

Well, shit. “Including you?”

She shakes her head. 

“Probably figured you’d be useful,” Bucky muses. “He probably wants a new Avengers. Now that SHIELD’s lost control of the old ones.”

A frown furrows her brow. She wants to argue, he can tell, and she’s having trouble coming up with a good rebuttal when that’s probably exactly what SHIELD wants. 

She doesn’t get much time to think about it: a key grates in the lock. Skedaisy freezes, eyes on the door. 

“Well,” says Bucky, half-resigned. He crosses the room to open the door. There’s Steve on the other side, key in his hand, the front of his stupid tiny t-shirt soaked with sweat. 

He draws back when he sees who it is, his face closing. “Bucky.” 

Bucky throws open the door so Steve can see Skedaisy on the couch. “I brought a surprise.”

***

Someone’s taught Steve something about surveillance, because he doesn’t say _Quake_ when he shows up to find her sitting on his sofa. (Not that it’d matter, the way Bucky and Skedaisy have been jabbering away. Soft, that’s what he’s getting.) Steve just looks at her, and looks at Bucky, a long meaningful stare that says _What the fuck?_

Bucky grins back at him. Cheeky. 

Steve steps inside and shuts the door hard behind him. “Bucky,” he says again. “It’s not a good time.” 

“Why not? Planning to have a party with all your Avengers friends?” 

Steve’s about to speak. But Skedaisy blurts out, “You’re Bucky Barnes.” She’s staring. “ _The_ Bucky Barnes.”

It’s kind of sad how much he enjoys that. _The_ Bucky Barnes, member of the Howling Commandos, American hero. Dies tragically in every Captain America movie, miniseries, or TV show. Bucky’s watched them all, including the cartoon from the eighties and that one weird show from the fifties where Steve dog-paddles away from the crash of the Valkyrie to become Captain America, Commie Fighter. 

Steve probably hates it. Bucky oughta pull it up on Youtube to show it to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Skye asks.

Bucky snorts. “Right. And how about I tell you that I’m Abraham Lincoln and Jesus Christ while I’m at it? You’d’ve figured I was crazy.”

She’s still staring. “ _How_? You fell off a train.”

“Into a glacier,” Bucky says. “And froze. Like that one.” He jerks his chin at Steve. 

Skedaisy’s eyes flick back and forth between them. “You’re a supersoldier too?”

“That’s what Zola was trying to make in that prison camp, I guess,” Bucky says. 

He’s pretty sure the only reason he survived is that Zola didn’t have the time to keep tinkering, like he did with all the others. Thank God for Zola’s perfectionism, or he could have given the Nazis a fucking supersoldier battalion. 

“Well,” Steve interrupts. He’s too polite to up and kick them out, although he looks like he wants to. “There’s no food in the house. Bucky, you’d better come with me to bring back some breakfast.” 

“You can’t get breakfast on your own?” Bucky says. 

Steve’s eyes lock on his. Bucky glares back, and usually he’d win a staring contest like this, but Steve’s dander is up and his eyes go thin and mean and his mouth sets, and Bucky looks away. 

Steve’s got a point, anyway. Bucky’s got some ‘splaining to do.

***

As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Bucky grumps, “She’ll probably be gone by the time we get back.”

“Good,” Steve responds. 

Bucky is taken aback. “What?” he says, widening his eyes. “Steve Rogers, afraid of getting in trouble?”

“I like to choose my trouble,” Steve says. His voice is clipped, his hands jammed in his pockets; he refuses to look at Bucky. Bucky feels a touch of remorse. He has just dropped a heap of trouble in Steve’s lap without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“Who _is_ she, Buck?” Steve demands. 

The sidewalk is deserted in the spitting rain, no one around to overhear, but Bucky’s answer is guarded anyway. “You know,” he says. “I saw you recognize her. From the papers.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Steve says. He glances at Bucky, then away. “How’d you get involved?” 

Bucky has no good explanation for this. It’s half a block before he answers. “She used to be SHIELD,” he says. “A SHIELD operative named Skye. Then about a year ago, she disappeared, and when she came back – ” He slashes a hand through the air. “No more Skye. Everyone calls her Daisy Johnson, and she’s got a bunch of powers.” 

Steve digests this. “You sure it’s not two different people?”

“It’s not.” Bucky’s good with faces, and Skedaisy’s got a damn distinctive face. 

Another half block in silence. The rain is getting heavier. They pause beneath an awning in front of a clothing boutique, closed at the moment; it’s still not quite eight a.m. “You think she was brainwashed,” Steve says. “You’re hoping for a brainwashing buddy.”

“I am _not_ ,” says Bucky. 

Steve frowns. The rain hammers on the taut cloth, loud enough that it’s hard to talk, to hear themselves think. Across the sidewalk, a sparrow huddles on one of those spindly sidewalk trees cities are always trying to plant, its feathers all fluffed out. Bucky envisions Skedaisy trying to run for it in this, feet jammed in her black boots, black leather jacket on over Steve’s stupid shirt, probably stealing his motorcycle, not even wearing a helmet. Wet hair flapping in the breeze like a flag. He hasn’t gotten to ask her hardly anything yet. 

The rain’s barely lessened, but Bucky walks onward. Faster they’re back, more likely she’ll still be there. Steve splashes after him. “Wrong way,” he says, and Bucky reverses to go right instead of left. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Bakery,” Steve says. He glances at Bucky, and down at the sidewalk, and says, “There really is no food in the house. I don’t cook much.”

“Must be nice having a metric fuckton of army back pay,” Bucky says. 

Steve winces. “If you’re hard up – ”

“I’m fine,” Bucky interrupts. He is. His sister Rebecca’s always wildly overpaying him for the odd jobs up at the cabin. (“It’s not over-payment,” she tells him. “It’s inflation.” Which it isn’t. “I’m an rich old lady now, so let me do what makes me happy, young man.” Gnarled old hands on her hips, glaring up at him. He went to Rebecca first after he escaped Hydra.) 

The rain is picking up. Steve looks unhappy. “Bucky – ”

“I want to get back before Skedaisy runs for it,” Bucky snaps. “Get your head out of your ass, Steve. If SHIELD’s brainwashing its own operatives we oughta know, don’t you think? That’s why I got involved. She ran away, so maybe she’ll tell us.”

“I guess,” Steve says. His gray t-shirt clings to his body, soaked. “Why’d you have to bring her _here_?”

“Because,” Bucky says, and stops. All his rationalizations fall away from him. The rain is blowing over, just a few drops flicking on his face. “I wanted her to know who I am.” 

“And you couldn’t just tell her?” Steve’s eyes are mean little slits.

“No,” Bucky snaps. “It sounds crazy when there’s no one else to back it up. Or even if there is. Rebecca’s daughter thinks – ” He barks out a laugh. “She thinks I’m some depraved lookalike fortune hunter preying on her mother’s declining mind.” 

Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit,” he says, and he’s silent for a few moments, and then he says, “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He’s going to lose the whole Barnes family when Rebecca dies. It’s fine.

“Would it help if I vouched for you?”

“No.”

“I’m going to visit Rebecca in a month anyway. It wouldn’t be any trouble – ”

“ _No_ , Steve. Jesus. Leave it alone!”

They’ve reached the bakery, thank God. It’s a festival of bagels, croissants, an entire coffee cake, a second coffee cake with blueberries and lemon – more food than anyone really needs, but Steve always brings home piles of food when Bucky’s around. A loaf of bread. Two jars of jam. A bottle of little tiny cornichon pickles. 

Steve insists on carrying it all. 

They are nearly back at the apartment before Steve speaks again. “Are you,” Steve asks, shifting the sack from hand to hand. “Are you blowing things up with her?”

“What? No.” 

Steve’s shoulders sag. He rubs his face with a hand. He looks very tired. “Thank God,” he says, heartfelt, and something in the way he says it makes Bucky burst out:

“You’re not going to turn her in?” He’s incredulous. He’s appalled at himself for not considering the possibility. 

“No,” Steve says, but that’s exactly what he’d say if he were going to, so. 

“I’ll never speak to you again if you do,” Bucky tells him. 

“For Christ’s sake – ”

“I’ll never speak to you again,” Bucky says, his voice rising. “Like you’ve got any room to judge other people for blowing shit up, after all the Hydra bases we did in World War II – ”

“We were under US army command – ”

“If it’s right to do it under command then it’s right without a command!” Bucky says. “Who commanded you to blow up the helicarriers?”

“Nick Fury,” Steve shoots back. “No one would order her to do what she’s doing. If she was under orders, a team would raid the Watchdog’s hideouts and arrest everyone, not blow the place up and kill them all.” 

“You see any government organization stepping up to do that?” Bucky asks. “Look how long they let the fucking Ku Klux Klan ride. The government won’t care unless the Watchdogs turn Commie.” 

Steve can hardly argue with that. But his mouth gets that mulish set to it. “None of that means you needed to get me involved,” Steve says. They’ve reached his door, and he kicks it when the key doesn’t go in the first time. There goes the deposit. “Or get involved yourself. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

Bucky almost choking with rage. “You’ve never once in your life left well enough alone! Why should I?” 

The key finally turns. Steve nearly jerks the door off its hinges. 

There’s a narrow stair up to Steve’s apartment. They’re halfway up when Steve says, voice low and taut, “Are you in love with the girl?” 

“What?” says Bucky, because he hasn’t thought about it, barely knows her, sees her in his mind’s eye in that tight gray t-shirt – “Are you _jealous_?” Bucky asks. 

“No!” 

Bucky steps forward, closing the space between them in the narrow staircase. They’re standing almost chest to chest. Steve steps back, but there’s nowhere to go but against the wall, and Bucky plants one palm on the bricks just inches from Steve’s face. “Running away from a fight, Steve Rogers?”

Steve drops the grocery bags. The pickle jar shatters. He shoves Bucky away, and not gently either. Bucky slams against the far wall, the rail digging in his back, his foot slipping off the stair, and he would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed the rail. 

They’re both breathing hard. Paper-wrapped pastries litter the stairs. 

“I barely know her,” Bucky says. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. He bends to gather the pastries again. Bucky goes back down to the bottom to retrieve an escaped bagel. “Watch out for the glass!” Steve says, when Bucky begins to come back up.

Bucky ignores him. His combat boots can cope with a pickle jar. Steve is still on his knees, throwing croissants back in the bag. He twitches when Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says. 

Steve shrugs. Bucky sits beside him on the stairs, and a wave of déjà vu comes over him: he remembers sitting just like this, with Steve, on the fire escapes on hot summer days in Brooklyn. Talking about how to save the world. They believed it was possible then. 

“After what Tony did,” Steve says. He is speaking with difficulty. “With Ultron. It’s made me rethink some things.” He sits back on his haunches, crushing a croissant in one hand. “Like whether vigilantism is advisable.” 

“’Cause Tony almost blew up the world.” It’s too damn bad Bucky didn’t kill him with his parents way back when. But Tony wasn’t in the car like he was supposed to be, the stupid brat, and Hydra didn’t authorize a second hit. 

Steve nods. “And she,” he says, tilting his chin upward to indicate Skedaisy, “could level a city.”

That may be an overstatement. But she could definitely level a building if she wanted. Quake: the one-girl 9/11. “Do you trust the government to do better?” Bucky asks. “It’s governments that started World War II.”

Steve laughs, dry and brittle. “No,” he says. “There’s no one left to trust.” 

And there’s really nothing to say to that. They sit on the steps for a while. The pickle juice drip – drip – drips. 

Bucky picks up the shopping bag. Steve’s staring at nothing. Sometimes Bucky feels like the Typhoid Mary of thousand-yard stares.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Can you do me a favor?”

Steve’s on his feet in an instant. “Anything.”

Christ. Bucky digs a wad of cash out of his pocket, takes out his motorcycle keys. It’s a struggle to put them in Steve’s hand. Bucky loves that bike. 

But. “I can’t drive Skedaisy across the county on a motorcycle,” Bucky says. “Find me a used car. She needs to rest.” 

***

Skedaisy’s still there. She looks like maybe she was thinking of being elsewhere – she’s got her leather jacket back on – but exhaustion must’ve caught up with her, because she’s lying on the couch, her hair tousled like she was napping before Bucky came back. The sound of the door must’ve woken her. She’s jumpy from being on the run. Bucky knows how it is. 

He hefts the bag. “We brought food,” he says, and realizes only then that it’s going to be damn hard for her to eat anything with her hands busted like that. Should’ve brought her a smoothie or something. 

Too late now. Bucky cuts up one of the croissants and then he and Skedaisy both stare down at the bite-sizes pieces. She won’t be able to lift those either. Her hands tighten infinitesimally. The pain twists her face.

“You can’t levitate shit like Matilda?” Bucky asks, teasing gently. 

It works, at least a little. Skye cracks a tiny smile. “I loved that movie,” she says. “When I was a kid I’d practice for hours and hours, trying to levitate something.”

“Any luck?” 

“No.” Her lopsided smile flickers. 

Bucky picks up a bite of croissant. He holds it out to her, not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that she can take it if she wants, and after a few seconds she leans forward and takes the bite of croissant delicately between her teeth. 

Her lips are drawn back so they don’t touch his fingers. Bucky’s fingertips tingle anyway. 

He nearly feeds her the next bite with his metal hand, but that seems obscurely insulting. He takes up another bite, and she takes it the same as before, and chews slowly. 

When she’s swallowed, she says, “I read your mom’s memoir a million times when I was growing up.” 

Bucky’s stomach clenches. Of course she has. It’s famous, _The Five Musketeers of Brooklyn_ , all funny stories about Bucky and his sisters growing up in the twenties and the thirties. The book sold about a billion copies. Bought the family a cabin upstate, filled college funds for all the grandkids. 

The one time Bucky tried to read it, he could practically hear his mother speaking. He started bawling two paragraphs in. 

“I haven’t read it,” he says.

She looks surprised. “It’s so good. I hauled it through half a dozen foster homes before it fell apart. My name was Mary when I was growing up, just like your second-youngest sister, and I used to pretend…”

“You’re nothing like her,” Bucky interrupts. She isn’t. Mary was quiet, sickly, easily tired. Wrote to him twice a week after he was deployed, more regularly than anyone, even his mom. Died in a car crash, 1973. “Probably her high school class elected her Least Likely to Blow Things Up.” 

That lopsided smile flickers over Skye’s face again. “I know. It was just that we had the same name,” she says. 

“But not anymore?” Bucky says, belatedly leaping on this piece of intelligence. “Your name’s not Mary now?” 

The little smile is back. It’s not a happy smile. He wonders if she has one of those. “I changed it when I left foster care.” 

In for a penny, in for a pound. “To Skye?” 

She freezes. Her eyes flicker to the door, back to his face, and Bucky sits back, so she’s got room to bolt if she wants to. 

She doesn’t try it. “How do you know that name?” she asks. 

“You used to use it,” Bucky says. He’s watching her face, trying to see if she remembers. It’s hard to tell. “You remember?”

“Of course I remember,” she says, and she sounds indignant, which means jackshit. Maybe she remembers; maybe she’s trying to cover because she doesn’t. 

“Why’d you stop?” Bucky asks.

“I – ” She stops, scowling. “That’s none of your business,” she says. “Why are you asking?” 

“Just curious,” he says. “SHIELD sends you away, and you come back with new powers and a new name – that’s enough to make anyone curious. Daisy Johnson.” 

Her eyes dilate. She searches his face, and he leans back, tries to look calm, relaxed. 

The relaxation is no joke. If she tosses him across the room with her powers, it’s gonna hurt way less if he takes it like a rag doll.

She doesn’t throw him. Yet. “The Avengers have been watching me,” she says. 

The Avengers don’t give a damn about the new SHIELD. “I’ve been watching SHIELD,” Bucky corrects. 

“Why?” 

“I make it my business to keep an eye on dangerous things.”

“SHIELD’s not – ” Skedaisy huffs out a breathe. “You’ve got it all wrong. SHIELD didn’t send me away or – brainwash me or whatever you’re thinking. Daisy Johnson is my birth name.” 

Bucky rocks back in his chair, surprised. Skedaisy makes like to push her hair out of her eyes, but the movement hurts her hand. She stops. Bucky’s hand twitches, wanting to tuck her hair back for her. He flattens his palm against his thigh and holds it down with his metal fist. 

“My mother,” says Skedaisy. Her voice is rough, and she has to clear her throat. “She was in charge of Afterlife. It was a kind of a sanctuary for Inhumans. They took me in after I developed my powers.”

Bucky frowns. “They didn’t want you when you didn’t have powers?”

“No! It’s not like that. It’s just that I was kidnapped as a baby – well, not kidnapped, SHIELD took me to protect me – ”

Classic SHIELD rationalization. Everything’s kosher if you say it’s for protection. 

“It’s complicated,” Skedaisy says, and sighs. Her shoulders slump. “And my mother wasn’t…” Her fingers twitch. “She wasn’t much like your mom, that’s for sure.”

Bucky’s not sure what to say. “That’s not the only way to be a good mother,” he says cautiously. 

“She tried to kill me.”

“Jesus!” 

Skedaisy’s staring down at her bandaged hands. “SHIELD’s been looking after me my whole life,” she says. “All the time growing up when I thought I was all alone – they’ve always been there.” 

There’s a lump growing in Bucky’s throat. A lot of shit’s happened to Bucky, but at least he got to have a happy childhood first. 

“Hey,” he says. She looks up at him, that automatic smile coming back on her face. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and removes it, and looks away from her and starts tearing up another croissant. “You should eat more,” he says. “Do you want something to drink?” 

“I’m fine.” 

They both tense at the sound of a key in the door. But of course it’s only Steve, and he’s got a pair of car keys dangling from his hand. He tosses them to Bucky. Bucky snags them out of the air. 

“Ford Focus,” Steve says. “Hope that’s good enough.”

“That’ll be fine,” Bucky says. 

“You got a car?” Skedaisy says.

She sounds surprised, and all of a sudden Bucky realizes – how could he be so fucking stupid? – that he hasn’t actually told her his plan, or asked if she wants to come along. He’s been on his own too long. 

“I thought we’d go on a road trip,” he says, sheepish. “You could rest up.”

Her eyes brighten. “Like Bonnie and Clyde,” she says. 

Bucky laughs. “People still remember them?”

“There’s a movie,” Steve and Skedaisy say, not quite in unison, their voices overlapping.

“’Course there is,” Bucky says. He spins the keys around his thumb. They flash in the sunlight. “You got my change, Stevie?”

Steve hates that nickname. He scowls. “Here you go.”

It’s the same damn wad of bills Bucky handed him that morning. Completely unchanged. Steve paid for the car himself, probably used a credit card, that goddamn idiot. “Steve,” Bucky snaps. 

Steve’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He looks up warily, shoulders bracing, preparing for a fight, and all of a sudden Bucky feels a little ashamed of himself. Steve’s trying to do a nice thing. Maybe for once Bucky can let him.

“Hey,” says Bucky. “Thanks.” 

The hardness has gone out of Steve’s face. Now he just looks tired. “I’ll make you guys pancakes before you go,” he says. 

***

They leave after nightfall. The car’s dark blue, ten years old, utterly nondescript: exactly what they need. 

“Where are we going?” Skedaisy asks. 

“Elsewhere,” Bucky says. That’s always a good start. “You got someplace you’d like to be?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t do anything right now.”

“Lies,” Bucky pronounces. “Your eyes still work fine. We could do some sightseeing. You ever seen the Grand Canyon?”

She shrugs. 

It’s probably not a great idea to take her to a national park anyway. Probably park rangers get a copy of the FBI’s Most Wanted list. If the FBI still makes one. 

“Well then,” Bucky says, “I guess we’ll just drive.”

And they do. Bucky takes the back roads, not so much for safety’s sake but because they remind him of his childhood, those long meandering rides they used to take in the late twenties just after Dad bought the car. No interstates back then. 

Even the back roads aren’t really the same: most of them are paved these days. The tires don’t blow out. Bucky drives and drives through the dark countryside, nothing but blackness all around the slim wedge of road illuminated by his headlights. He rolls the windows down and goes slow and listens for owls. 

Skedaisy sleeps in the passenger seat. When they go through towns, the light from the streetlamps flickers over her face, and Bucky glances over just to see that she’s still there.

***

“You don’t have one of those holographic masks things, do you?” Bucky asks. 

It’s morning. The magnolias are blooming, their thick white petals nearly glowing in the streaming sunshine. They are sitting across from a church yard sale, tables upon tables of things. They could buy clothes for Skedaisy. Maybe a tent. 

But she shakes her head. “Don’t you think I’d be using it if I had one?”

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe you want to Watchdogs to see your face.”

“Yeah,” agrees Skedaisy. Her voice sounds scratchy. “But I don’t have one.”

“Should’ve stolen it before you busted out of SHIELD.”

“I wasn’t…” Skedaisy sighs. “I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

Well, Bucky knows how that goes. 

So Skedaisy stays in the car while Bucky hits the tables. It’s a bonanza. Bucky buys a tent, clothes for Skedaisy – three long-sleeved peasant blouses; they’ll cover her bandaged arms and they don’t look like her at all, just what you want in a disguise.

At the last moment he springs for a dozen CDs: the Beatles, U2, Spice Girls, One Direction, Simon and Garfunkel, any band that he’s heard of since he got out of Hydra. 

“Heading out on a long drive?” the lady at the cash box asks.

“Road trip with my wife,” Bucky says, lie rolling off his tongue easy. 

They stop at a Dairy Queen on the way out of town. Bucky gets Skedaisy a blizzard and they spend some time trying to splice some straws together, so she won’t have to use her hands at all to drink, but of course it fails in the end and they’re left with a bunch of broken straws, and they look at each other and laugh. 

“I bet that yard sale has some of those big fancy curly straws,” Skedaisy says. 

So they go back. And it does. Bucky buys her a purple one with three loop-de-loops, and she drinks the milkshake through it as they drive out of town again on a bumpy tree-lined lane. “Now this,” Bucky announces, “is what roads used to be like, in the good old days.” 

“I always loved the chapter,” Skedaisy starts, and stops herself, and glances at him. 

But the idea of his mother’s memoir hurts less this morning. Maybe it’s the sunshine dappling through the leaves, or his milkshake, or just driving a car with someone he likes beside him. “Is there a chapter about our drives? Rotten roads, tires blowing out at every pothole, picnic on the grassy roadside while Dad tried to fix it?”

Skedaisy starts to laugh. “Yeah. Did you really climb into a bull’s pasture one time?”

“My mom swears I did,” says Bucky, laughing. “I was five, I don’t remember, but she likes to – ” He stops. “Liked to,” he corrects himself. “She loved to tell that story.” 

They reach the end of the tree-lined avenue. The road continues on beneath the hot sun. Nothing is growing in the fields just yet. Bucky’s not sure what state they’re in. 

Skedaisy’s mouthing at her straw. He’s made it awkward. 

“I’ll call you Mary if you want,” Bucky offers.

Skedaisy shudders. “No.”

“I gotta call you something, kid,” Bucky says. “We’ll need some kind of cover story. I can’t introduce you as my sister Skedaisy.” 

The name makes her laugh. She ducks her head so her hair hides her face and drinks her milkshake. 

They drive on a few miles. There’s a horse and buggy coming down the road toward them. Bucky slows way down to let it pass. The horse’s hooves clop on the road. 

It’s nothing but a cloud of dust in the rearview mirror when Bucky asks, “Why do you go by Daisy? After your mother tried to kill you.”

She sucks at the straw again, but there’s not much milkshake left. “I made a promise to my dad,” she says. “I told him I would remember.” 

He doesn’t think he’s supposed to press, but. “Remember what?”

A one-shouldered shrug. “Remember him.” 

They drive on. After a while, Bucky puts on the Spice Girls CD. 

Skedaisy stirs. “I used to pretend I was one of them,” she says. “I called myself Hacker Spice.”

“Not calling you that,” Bucky tells her. That makes her laugh. 

Two weeks pass. Long drives, music playing. Lots of milkshakes. Skedaisy’s hands heal, and they stop in parks for picnics, finger foods: cheese, crackers, grapes. They take a turn south and find strawberries at a roadside stand. There’s a sign for a fair in the next town over, and they go, ride the Ferris wheel, buy a funnel cake. It sprinkles powdered sugar all down the front of Bucky’s shirt as he tears off pieces for her.

The third time she drops one on the trampled ground, she says, “Just feed it to me.”

He does. Her lips are warm. The lemonade they drank earlier has left her mouth sticky. She is wearing one of those peasant shirts, a bandanna like a headband, tiny shorts and strappy sandals. An adorable somebody-else. 

“We are a disgustingly cute couple,” he tells her. 

The sheriff’s looking at them, and maybe that’s why she steps forward, lifts her arms around his neck. Kisses him on the mouth.

The sheriff’s gone by the time they stop. Sometime during the kiss, Bucky dropped the remaining half of the funnel cake on the ground. It seems darker, the carnival lights brighter, the calliope on the pint-size merry-go-round out of tune. 

“We’d better go,” Bucky says, and they do. 

No flashing lights follow them out of town. Probably the sheriff wasn’t even looking at them. 

Bucky turns on the music, but it seems out of tune too, just like the calliope, so he turns it off. They drive through the dark silent night, unspeaking. The moon is nearly full. Bucky has no idea what to say. She probably just kissed him to throw the sheriff. And if she didn’t – 

It must have been the sheriff. He has no idea what to do with it, if it wasn’t to confuse the sheriff. He likes her a hell of a lot and she’s gorgeous and the last time he kissed a girl, she was from the Red Room, they were working an op together, and maybe that was part of the op to her the whole time, and anyway he’s pretty sure she doesn’t remember him anymore.

In the end he says nothing. They drive all night again. 

***

All good things must come to an end. 

Bucky can tell it’s coming. Skedaisy’s getting better, getting restless, getting tired of sight-seeing and ice cream and sunshine. 

They’re in California now, another day, another street fair, in a cute little tourist trap of a town with fudge shops lining Main Street. Skedaisy’s wearing hair extensions and a blue jeans jacket. She’s got a flock of butterflies painted on one cheek, courtesy one of the festival vendors. The sun is going down. Colorful carnival lights hang around the square. 

Someone left a newspaper on a bench in front of a fudge shop. And that’s what does them in: the headline, tall black letters, _Watchdogs Murder Two._

Skedaisy snatches it up. Even in the red and blue and yellow glow of the carnival lights, Bucky can see her face has gone pale. “This is my fault,” she says. “I’ve got to get back out there.”

They’re surrounded by people. No one seems to have heard. Bucky puts a hand on her shoulder and maneuvers her down an alley, away from the square, to a deserted street lined with antique stores. They visited some of them during the day. Now they’re all closed and empty. 

“Your arms aren’t healed yet,” he tells her. 

“So? People are _dying_.” 

“You could be dying too if you face off with the Watchdogs with your arms like that,” Bucky argues. “Someone else will have to do something. What about your Inhuman friends at, what did you call it, Afterlife – ”

“They’re all dead.”

Fuck. “The Watchdogs,” he says. Fuck, no wonder she’s on this suicide run against them – 

But Skedaisy’s shaking her head. 

“SHIELD.”

“No! Why do you hate SHIELD so much?” 

“Well – ” They could be here a long time. 

But she’s not listening anyway. “Afterlife was destroyed,” Skedaisy says. “It was all my fault. And that’s when the terrogen crystals were released, and that’s why so many humans are turning now, because they’re being exposed to them without any warning. We would still be secret and safe if it wasn’t for me. The Watchdogs exist because of me. That’s why I’ve got to stop them. Every time they kill an Inhuman, that’s on me.”

“Skedaisy,” Bucky says.

“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault!”

“I’m not planning to,” Bucky says. “I have no idea if it’s your fault.” And he always wanted to punch Steve’s face in whenever Steve said shit like that. No one ever stopped feeling guilty just because someone told them to. “But either way, you can’t just run out there half-cocked and get yourself killed. What kind of atonement is that?” 

Her eyes are liquid in the light of the streetlamps. “I’ve got to do this,” she insists. 

“At least don’t go alone. You can’t do this on your own.”

“Then help me!” 

“That’s what I’m doing!” 

“By holding me back?” She takes a step toward him. He steps back. “Fight with me,” she says. “We could take them out so much faster if there were two of us.” 

“No.” He says it without thinking about it, and when he does think about it – tries to imagine blowing up warehouses with her – “No. I don’t do that anymore.” 

“Then get out of my way.” Her lip curls. “That’s what your help is, isn’t it? You’re just trying to stop me from going after the Watchdogs. You don’t care – ” 

“I guess that’s why I left you there to die when that warehouse blew up, because I don’t care?” 

Skedaisy holds her ground. “You don’t care about Inhumans,” she says. “You may think you care about me, but you don’t care about _us_.” 

“It’s not about caring,” Bucky insists. “I just – I don’t _do_ that anymore.” 

“You’d do it if it were Hydra.” 

Bucky’s temper is fraying. He’s been trying to be patient, because she’s upset, but fuck that. “I stopped doing it when it was Hydra,” he snaps. 

“Why? You get scared?”

“No!” Bucky shouts. “I blew up the wrong place!” 

That throws her. “What?” 

“I made a mistake,” Bucky grates. It’s not something he’s proud of, not something he likes talking about – but hell, if it’ll stop this crazy crusade, or at least get her to pause till her arms are fully healed… “I followed bad intel. Blew up the wrong warehouse. There was no one inside, but.” Bucky blows out a breath. “That was just luck. It could go the other way next time.” 

“We’ll be more careful,” Skedaisy says. 

Bucky is piqued. “I was fucking careful,” he snaps. “You can’t eliminate human error. If you keep this up, you’re going to blow up the wrong thing eventually.” 

Her jaw sets. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take.” 

They stand in silence. The band is playing on the soundstage over at the fair. They’re far enough away that only the bass line comes through. 

If he could throw her over his shoulder and carry her away from this damnfool idea, he would, but she could blow him through the wall if he tries. He’s seen her do it to a Watchdog. 

“Well,” Bucky says. “That’s on you. I don’t do that anymore.”

Her shoulders sag. The fight – no, not the fight; the anger has gone out of her. “I’ve got to go,” she says.

He sighs. “I know.” He’s spent his whole damn life watching people pick fights with targets that are too big for them. 

“Thank you for…” She waves a hand, like she can’t think of a word big enough to encompass everything.

“Let’s go back to the car and get your stuff at least,” Bucky says.

But she shakes her head. “I’ve got to go now,” she says. 

Like she’s afraid she’ll stay if she doesn’t run for it right this moment. A spark of hope flickers in Bucky’s chest. “Let me buy you some fudge at least,” he says. “A pound of rocky road.”

She’s shaking her head, backing away. 

“Skedaisy,” he says. 

She stops when he speaks. “Please,” she says, and he thinks, he’s almost sure she’ll stay if he can just think of the right thing to say. 

He doesn’t have it. He doesn’t try. 

“Don’t forget me,” he says.

Her eyes widen. He didn’t mean the words to hurt, but it looks like they do. “I won’t,” she says, rough-voiced.

She walks purposefully out in the middle of the deserted street. She stands there for just a moment, a slim black silhouette in the darkness, arms down at her sides and head up before she blasts off into the sky.

He stands there a while, head tilted back, long after he’s lost sight of her. The moon has begun to wane. 

A breeze blows the scent of caramel corn from the fair. Bucky drops his gaze with a sigh and rubs his eyes. Christ. That’s still the fucking coolest thing he’s ever seen.


End file.
